Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
George EliotSolomon's Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the sore palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendos.
George EliotThere was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow.
George Eliot